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Zk | background

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How do we remember the past?1 How do we remember all of those countless conversations that make up our friendships, our relationships, our enmities? How do we remember the past?

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The Fundamental Unhappiness of Identity

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How do we remember the past?1 How do we remember all of those countless conversations that make up our friendships, our relationships, our enmities? How do we remember the past?

I met her through a friend, Andrew. My boyfriend at the time, actually. I’d flown down to Florida some time in 2009, I think, to visit him. A quick jaunt down to Clearwater where his ex-Scientologist mom and step-dad had set up their own business, bought some ridiculous house on the beach, and raised their only child.

So much of that trip was so fun, too, even if it was the last. We drove out to some car meet-up at a strip mall. Fast car after fast car lined up in a parking lot. Men in sunglasses. Someone, years younger than I, crouching down to try and stick his cell phone, held up on its edge, under his car and showing that it had been lowered that much. “Fucking idiot,” Andrew whispered. “Speed bumps would rip the shit out of that.”

He was the car nerd, not me. He was the one who had a black Dodge Dynasty with a red velour interior — his “mob car” — and then that terrible minivan he tried to strip and paint black by himself, and then the…was it a Passat?

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Zk | dysphoria

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Friction

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+ + + diff --git a/writing/3/unknown-things/iyov/reverse/younes.html b/writing/3/unknown-things/iyov/reverse/younes.html index f5314d7e2..a7945a420 100644 --- a/writing/3/unknown-things/iyov/reverse/younes.html +++ b/writing/3/unknown-things/iyov/reverse/younes.html @@ -12,7 +12,8 @@

Zk | younes

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I was young, once, and dumb.

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Gender Play and Hidden Selves

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I was young, once, and dumb.

Which is not to say that I’m not, now, of course. I certainly feel it sometimes. Even the young bit: Madison is, what, eight now? Not many eight year olds are smart. I still fumble. I still seem to create those humiliating moments that stick in the memory and make me wince whenever they come up, though they’ve changed in tenor over the years.

But I was young and dumb and desperately trying to figure out what the hell was going on with my identity, this awkward pile of senses and sensations that were causing so much friction in my life.

An aside: “Identity is psychopathological,” my first psychologist said. “You only feel it when there’s friction.”1 I’m not totally sure that I agree — trans joy is as much a thing as trans pain — but, as a statement, it’s true enough, most of the time. Something about the way my life was built such that the smallest things, coarse as sandpaper, would brush up against something integral, and scrape away at its surface, leaving tracks colored cherry.

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